Reflections on Aging

A few weeks ago, I turned 40 years old.  I don't necessarily feel 40, but I've been told that I look it by "so-called" friends who will remain nameless, KAREN!  Accused of being a cougar, even though my darling hubby is five years older than me, I apparently am no longer kissed by youth's dew.   A dear friend even embarrassed me by taking out one of those horrible "lordy, lordy look who's 40" ads in The Sentinel-Echo - the hometown newspaper.  And people actually SAW it and commented on it.

Suffice it to say that I am not ashamed or even fearful that my faces shows each passage of time and that my body is a scarred road-map to major events in my life.  I am even less concerned that my hair, streaked in "Bride of Frankenstein" gray, makes the point that I'm no longer considered young.  When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who has lived life, along with stray chin hairs that I cannot seem to get rid of.  Superficial things like wrinkles and stray eyebrows just do not concern me.  I'm glad that I have crow's-feet crinkles and even though I've smoked on and off forever, my face does not have the deep ruts associated with the nasty habit.  I laugh and smile too much for that to happen.

So turning 40 doesn't make me sad.  In fact, as I reflect on birthdays past, I can't say that I would go back to any other age.  There are certain days, granted, that I would like to replay.  Certain times where I would like to go back and pay more attention.  Certain things that I might have rephrased.  But regrets, not really.  I'm lucky that way.  Not to say I've always been Little Suzy Sunshine - far, far from it.  But when I was mean, I meant it.  And when I was wrong, I apologized, even though it might have taken years to realize the error and attempt to fix it.  I did make an effort.  When I truly loved, I wasn't afraid to show it, no matter what the consequences.  And so far, I haven't committed real evil.  Considering I think I have definite serial killer tendencies, I think that's saying something.

I was born on a Tuesday afternoon in 1970 to Ruth and Donald Jackson.  You know the old saying, "Tuesdays child is full of grace."  Well, they obviously haven't met me seeing as I fall down walking on flat surfaces.  My parents are still married and live in the same house we moved to when I was 4 years old.  I am lucky to have them.  They're both incredibly hardworking, intelligent, and creative people.  My mom is an amazing artisan who can take scraps of fabric and turn them into something beautiful.  My dad is a human calculator who can add figures in his head quicker than I could enter them into a machine.  I know they love me and are proud of who I have become.  But I also know that they're not about to let me get a big head or put on airs.  That kind of behavior will STILL get the smack brought down on me, toot suite!  That kind of raising grounds a person in reality.  I am thankful for it.

My darling hubby and I have been together for so long that it's difficult to remember life pre-Jay.  I think we have a unique relationship - we're partners and we rarely argue.  And when we do disagree, it's usually over something trivial like taking out the garbage or loading the dishwasher.  The big things that can make or break a marriage, we have those down to a science.  He is so good to me.  He supports my ideas, makes me coffee, and has a knack for making my knees go weak.  I know, sap-city, but it's true.  I don't tell him enough how much I love and appreciate him and how thankful I am that he is in my life.  But does anyone ever let the one they love know how much enough?  Marriage is a lot of work but I'm happy to say that we have persevered.  Our son, Jack, is proof of that.

There is so many things about Jack that amaze me.  His vocabulary is phenomenal and his personality is very giving and gentle.  His stubborn streak exists in a mirror image of mine and his easy-going nature is a mirror image of his father.  From the top of his head to his lips he is me made over.  From the lips down, he is his father.  Of course, the things that come out of his mouth are all Jack.  His sweet smile, sparkly eyes, and general ability to do anything tug on my heart like nothing ever has.  When he first appeared in a school play, I cried like an idiot when he came onstage.  My heart-felt like it would explode.  To say he is my world would be an understatement.  He is my universe.

I love my job.  I think I love my job even more because I paid my dues to get here.  I'm doing work that I think is important, I'm challenged in a daily basis, and I get to work for and with the greatest people in the world.  Education is something that is vitally important to me - and to be a part of such an innovative institution, well, I am constantly making people sick because I am so psyched and ready to go.  I have NEVER felt like this at any other job... not even the newspaper.  I finally found a home.

My animals are another matter.  I love my goofy dogs, crazy cats, insane chickens, pretty peacocks, giant geese, and delightful ducks... and let's not forget the guineas.  The goat, well, I can take him or leave him.  Even though Jay calls me Dr. Doolittle, there is a camaraderie I have with these creatures.  I wish people could be more like animals.  If you're happy, show it.  If you're mad, get over it.  And be sure to eat on time.  Perhaps that's just wishful thinking.  But the animals really do bring a peace of mind to me that I treasure on a daily basis.  There is something comforting knowing that these creatures depend on me for affection, care, food, and companionship.  I take that responsibility very seriously.

And my gardening... I love my plants!  Finally, after much desire, I have a greenhouse to work in all year round.  Grand plans for this springs garden are in process as I make lists and begin creating magic with plants.  I love seeing seeds mature to flowering and I enjoy sharing the bounty of a great harvest with friends.  I like to dig in the dirt and feel its coolness on my skin and let the richness of it fill my senses.  I enjoy creating my English garden on my hillside, working it a little more every year.  It takes a commitment to be a gardener or any type of farmer.  You know you're in it for the long-haul.  Kind of like being married and having a kid.  It's a commitment that has to be nurtured on a daily basis.

So as I countdown to middle-age, I'm happy to say that I made it.  I hope when I really am the crazy chicken lady about 40-45 years down the line, brain addled with dementia, that my son remembers his momma as I am now - at my apex.  Happy, secure, confident, loved, and loving.  Hopefully, he'll smile at the thought and pick out a really nice nursing home.